


I think I'll stay here 'til I feel whole again

by carrionkid



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Factor (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Flashbacks, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: okay so this takes place after shatterstar gets unpossessed? deposessed? exposessed? and is based almost entirely on an angsty headcanon from some tumblr friends (galaxy----prince and moreroads)said angsty headcanon is that no one ends up with 4 foot long hair for no reason, and that reason is that it's pretty fucking impressive if you've lived long enough to have hair that long. and then the ensuing fallout from getting unposessed and realizing he's got short hair now and can't remember when that happened.title is from the mountain goats song 'until i am whole'--Someone grabs his chin, nails digging into his flesh, and tips his head back. He does not look at them, can’t, won’t, keeps his eyes trained on the white light above. Hypnotic, harsh enough to cut afterimages into his field of vision.





	I think I'll stay here 'til I feel whole again

Someone grabs his chin, nails digging into his flesh, and tips his head back. He does not look at them, can’t, won’t, keeps his eyes trained on the white light above. Hypnotic, harsh enough to cut afterimages into his field of vision. He can taste bile in the back of his throat when he notices the light blurs more each time he blinks.  _ They won’t like that. _

 

Another is behind him. He can feel the presence, body still so as not to betray the twisting feeling under his skin. A hand, on the back of his head. He could turn back so easily, catch them off guard, break a few fingers in the process. Breaking fingers is easy, familiar. Nothing like trying to pause the itch to move, muscles taut as his fingers dig into his palms. He chokes back the entirety of his being, the culmination of ceaseless training, body rigid as the one behind him speaks.

 

“Big day tomorrow.”

 

Not a question, a statement. Still unexpected. He is rarely spoken to. He is spoken  _ about,  _ but that is markedly different. He cradles the fragments of overheard words to his chest like something stolen, silently mouthing them in whatever blind spot he can find until they feel familiar.

 

He tries to swallow, mouth too dry to accomplish much of anything, “Y-yes.”

 

“Don’t move,” says the other.

 

It’s an order. There is never any ambiguity in orders, never anything unexpected, no question as to what is the correct response. 

 

He doesn’t move.

 

The only sound he can make out is the static hum of the machine raking over his scalp. 

 

He doesn’t move. 

 

Fluttering on the edge of his periphery, he can see flashes of red.

 

He doesn’t move. 

 

He blinks hair out of his eyes, little pinpricks on the curve of his cheek.

 

He doesn’t move.

 

The one behind him shoves his back hard, “Get going, isn’t enough time for you to stand around all day.”

 

His body moves without thinking. 

 

He blinks and finds himself back in his cell, curled over himself as his knees press into the cold, packed dirt. He scrubs his fingers over his scalp, sending stray strands falling to his shoulders, brustling against the back of his neck, sharp against the palms of his hands.

 

He grows desperate. Frantic. Almost clawing at his skin. Tears cutting tracks down his cheek. Digging nails into the side of his head. Shame burning on his face. He can’t stop, only curl tighter into himself as he almost chokes on a sob. The back of his throat feels thick, making it hard to breathe. 

 

He wants to scream, wants to tear something apart, wants blood, wants vengeance, righteous fury eating a hole in the pit of his stomach. But it is safer to stay quiet, unnoticed, small and unassuming. Safer to settle for his own blood caked under his nails. He tries to stop the shaking, stifle the sobs, but it only makes them worse.

 

It is not uncommon to hear the others crying, but he has always considered himself better. Faster. More vicious. A weapon carefully honed to a razor’s edge. He’ll be bet against for sure. The nature of bets is a mystery to him, but there is enough repetition of the word to suggest importance. 

 

Weakling. Coward. The water soaks into the bone-dry dirt almost as soon as it hits, leaving only a senseless pattern of overlapping circles. He struggles for a choking, gasping breath, fluid gathering in the back of his throat. The splatters on the ground are indiscernible from blood in the thin light of the cell.

 

Falling forward onto his hands to brace himself, he retches. His lashes are so thick with tears that he can only just make out his fingers digging into the dirt. He heaves again and the inside of his ribs feel scraped clean. 

 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gritting his teeth. That was a foolish decision. A  _ very  _ foolish decision. Possibly a deadly one. He won’t be fed again until after the fight.  _ But maybe _ , he thinks, as quietly as he can, someone is always, always listening,  _ I’ll lose and this will all be over and I’ll be dead. _

 

< _ Don’t make me fight _ >

 

Stolen words mouthed with a traitor’s tongue.

 

“Mmm, Star,” Julio tightens his embrace, pushing his forehead against the back of Star’s neck, “You okay?”

 

His knees are curled tight to his chest, memory of where he is distorted, very few things are clear for him anymore.

 

“You okay?” Julio repeats, voice still slow with sleep but laced with urgency.

 

Shatterstar can’t find his way back to English, he can barely manage Cadre, stumbling over words that should, by all rights, be familiar but everything feels just as strange and incomprehensible as when he first came to Earth. Helplessness is a feeling he’s only recently become re-acquainted with.

 

< _... Lost, hollow, body feels wrong, nothing fits, can’t sleep, can’t think, can’t remember, not supposed to be here, static, gaps, so much is missing, too perfect to be real, too good, don’t deserve this… > _

 

“I can’t translate that fast when I’m half asleep,” Julio mumbles into Star’s back, breath warm against his skin with each word.

 

Before coming to Earth, he did not have a concept of an afterlife. There was no reason to  _ want  _ to continue on after death, it was an opportunity to escape. His frame of reference is cobbled together from bits and pieces of conversations between Roberto and Julio. He has a vague understanding of something better than before, only for the worthy.

 

He runs a hand through his hair, barely long enough to tangle his fingers in, voicing the only thought that he can manage, “I’m dead.”

 

“What? No, you were possessed, or somethin’, but you’re not dead.”

 

This is a mistake, even by the vague criterion described by Roberto, it’s impossible that he would be considered worthy. There is blood on his hands, he’s killed many. He did not die valiantly, not that he can remember, he can only find a blur between then and  _ now _ , a period of time which first started in Julio’s arms. The only thing he can truly say he wanted. Therefore, this must be an afterlife.

 

“You’re not dead,” Julio repeats with conviction, squeezing Star tight for a fraction of a second.

 

When he’s met with silence, Julio does as he often does, deflect, “A dead guy could  _ never  _ kiss like that.”

 

“My hair…” Star trails off, unable to find the words to convey the significance.

 

“I know,” Julio gives a nervous laugh, “It’s all fuckin’ gone.”

 

_ <It was…> _ He slips into Cadre, it’s easier to order his thoughts, < _ A marker. How long you are alive. There is nothing else to mark age. I fought. I lived. _ >

 

“It’ll grow back,” Julio’s voice is soft, punctuating the sentence with a kiss at the back of Star’s neck, “Your hair grows fast.”

 

< _Besides,_ _it’s kind of like you’re starting over with me._ > Julio says.

 

Star hums, not quite content but contemplative, as one of Julio’s hands tangles in his hair. Julio continues, tracing circles on Star’s scalp until his shoulders roll back and he uncurls as much as he  _ can,  _ relaxing back against Julio.


End file.
